


Between the dust of my robes.

by Mrs_Poncey



Series: Mrs_Poncey's Romus Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Characters suffering from severe c-ptsd, Dark, Descriptions of depression, Descriptions of murder, Detailed descriptions of bodily harm, Dubious Consent, F/M, FM polyjuiced, Flashbacks to war, Gore description, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Read warning triggers!, Slash, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Poncey/pseuds/Mrs_Poncey
Summary: At the end of the war, few survived.For Ron, being on the hero’s side came with a hefty sum of gallons. But when entering his vault, he only sees the faces of the dead. Defeated, he returns to burned-down burrow, to clothes passed on by dead brothers that comfort more than any gold ever could. Nobody understands.Until one day Remus appears. Remus who wears Sirius’s old jacket, and Harry’s Gryffindor scarf.In a world of memories, maybe they might find solace in the unexpected, in the blurred lines between consent, and between the dust of their robes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Remus Lupin/Ron Weasley
Series: Mrs_Poncey's Romus Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979683
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Between the dust of my robes.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SonnenFlower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonnenFlower/gifts).



> With a million thanks to Sonnenflower who looked this over for me. My dyslectic ars ain't easy to beta for. Thank you, I bow to you. X
> 
> Updated every two weeks on Tuesday. 
> 
> Art is my own design; the story idea is my own, yet the Harry Potter world ain't mine. Really, you can check my wallet. If you find anything, I'll split half. ;)

Before Ron lies Gringotts tunnels wrapped in a bitter, suffocated air. Icy fingers trail over humid walls that murmur in unjust rage at being left in forgotten decay. Stones creak and mourn under the weight of its injuries of charred black soot. Rocks cry over the state the scarcity of healing left them in. The bitter violence of it bristles along the fine hairs that coat Ron’s arms and sink into his pores.

The lament in Ron’s mind thrums a sharp vehement. It pleads with him to turn the fuck around, escape this place and to never return. What business has he amongst the wealth that cost him everything? He refuted Gringotts for years. Why not continue? All the letters they sent, he burned to a crisp—unopened—and made damn sure no one had other means to reach him any other way.

But the hope to find genuine treasures among galleons and jewels broke him. The keenness to recover a forgotten jacket, a misplaced ball of unused yarn, or one of mother’s cookbooks prevailed over the prospect of laying eyes on the repugnant gold. 

What if treasure lays beyond those doors? Even great-aunt Muriel’s blasted old robes would do.

Ron reaches out a freckled hand with breathed pause and lets his fingers linger before the brass vault-door. Four years it had been, since he hacked the sword of Gryffindor into Voldemort to slaughter him into nothing but a mass of rotted entrails bathed in blackened blood. Four years since he received the key to the joint vault, the dead had left him. A lifetime since he came back to an empty burrow, a forlornness left behind shell, and a soul festered with grisly memories. The war traded a life without money, filled with family and friends, for a mausoleum filled with bitter gold. 

Ron’s eyes slip shut as he shoves his hand against the metal to lets his magic seep into the timber to unlock it. When the door swings open, torches flare to life and soak the chamber in a brandish of vivid yellows. Within a moment, his heart slams against his ribs when accosted with the sickening sight. Eagerness to bolt back to the burned-down burrow, to the singular room he occupies alone with phantom wraiths that clog his veins. 

Clam hands fall limp to his belt, ice-cold pins strike right through him. Sweat beads down his brow as frugal eyes track the colossal piles of golden trinkets left behind by those he loved. Their reflection shimmers as to assure their power, but they never held the potential to repay what they had cost him. Yellow blurs together with crimson and his eyes grow wet with tears. Cracks chip his mind when red distorts across his vision. The cavern walls fade to battlegrounds, to bodies moving, to spells that hurl and to Hermione.

_My Hermione._

_“Sectumsempra!” Rowel’s voice roars. The wand in his grip steady as he aims with lethal skill. The purple curse hurdles across the field quicker than Ron can react._

_“HERMIONE DOWN!” Ron shouts and lobs himself in her direction. He arrives in front of her, warring wind and muscle burn, just as the curse works its course along her skin. Frantic hands reach out while his heart screams and pleads for her to please, please be okay. But the spray of blood covers his face before trembling fingers can coil around her arms. Ron’s eyes find Hermione’s frantic open ones. For a moment time remains frozen amongst a mist of blood. A snap, a gurgling ‘I love you’ mouths from her lips, before her head tumbles backwards off her torso, to meet the floor with a hollow thud. As Hermione’s lifeless body sinks into his open arms, Rons presence turns a cruel blood-red._

Inside the vault, Ron’s knees collide with stone before an acid gulf of yesterday’s alcohol empties onto the bleak stone floor. He colours it with his regret. It travels from his mouth, bleeds from his ears, and drips from his chin. A mind so full of the dark figures of the fallen that his skull severs around his ears. The agony—as vicious as the day it happened—slices him to the acid stone of his Gringotts vault.

Wet eyes brim with the blood of the dead as broken howls wrench from Ron’s throat. He attempts to crawl to the surrender that hints at him behind the exit, but a short, long-nailed hands grip on his arm hauls him up. A wash of alien magic crackles along his skin before a heavy door slams shut with a loud clang that echoes far too long. 

Without control, his body convulses and slumps against frigid wood and his ears drum loud. It’s painful being spoken to because Hermione’s blood still sticks on his tongue and Harry’s heartbreaking screams echo in his ears. On the frigid floor of Gringotts, Ron drowns in the torment of his failures, in visions of the gore on his fists, and the iron tang of blood in his mouth.

Her blood.

_Hermione._

A hard sting on his cheek brings him back to the here and now. The shape of a goblin floats between the battleground and the viscous blood on his palms. The goblin’s mouth moves and Ron realises he’s being spoken to.

“Mr Weasley, do you need a healer?” the hand clasped on his shoulder causes a rough jolt to travel down his spine.

With the last inches of lucidity, Ron shakes his head. He needs to be home, far aside from treasures that arrived at such monstrous prices.

“Home,” he says with a voice brittle like fractured glass.

“Mr Weasley, Sir?” A cold putrescine scent wafts over his face that blends reality with burned grounds, a bloodied forest, and Harry.

_My Harry._

_With his chest flat against the wood of the broom, his heart hacking at ribs, Ron shoots along the trees deep into the forbidden forest. Hours had passed since they last heard of Harry, and his heart demanded to find his best friend. The wind rushes and obscures everything yet nothing until—in an expanse of red—the view of Harry’s split off leg comes into sight. Broken screams escape chapped lips as he crashes to the ground and recognises the split rib cage of Harry. Ron discerns when the last part of his mind disintegrates. Knees shatter as he collapses over the vestiges of Harry, to cradle the crushed skull of the boy who once lived for them all._

In the rear of his mind Ron registers he is being lifted, but couldn’t care less. More magic washes over him to clear off the residues of his degradation. A voice drifts in along his mind. Ron demands his eyes to seek further than torn ligaments, entrails, and lifeless green eyes.

An old tweet jacket materialises in a vague cloud. 

“Kill me, Remus.” Ron sighs. His tear covered cheek collides with coarse fabric and the smell of old mothballs surrender him to a world that spins a blissful black.

“I’ve got you, my friend.” Remus whispers. _“I’ve got you.”_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hate it? Like it? Don't know what to do with it? Whichever way, I'll be happy to hear what you think. This is a rather personal nugget for me. This will be a very complex story, and I hope to do it and its characters justice.


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